God Is Thy Law, Thou Mine.

The Timely Dew Of Sleep Now Falling With Soft Slumb'rous Weight Inclines Our Eyelids.

Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

Till Old Experience Do Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

Awake, Arise Or Be For Ever Fall’n.